Shades of Red
by Joey51
Summary: Red. Everything was tinted red.


Another short Ryan/Kirsten piece written in response to **Brandywine's Death Fic Challenge**. I never got around to posting it here for some reason.

My prompt was "**Fever**." Because, apparently, we live in 1812, when people in the Western world still died from fevers.

**Shades of Red**

Time was barely crawling, like the lazy waves of heat rising out of the red furniture that decorated the tight room. Red. Everything was tinted red. The faces of the people who entered his vision, their eyes so bright with red worry, like lasers, forcing him to squint and turn away. When he told them "No," they'd insist "Yes," forcing him to accept the heat so deep into his bones that he knew were disintegrating. He could smell the burning deep inside.

He'd spend his time waiting for the crawling minute hand on the red clock to latch onto the top of every new hour. Because then she'd come. She was blue. Cold. So cold he would shiver gratefully as soon as she entered the room. Words would float out of her mouth like clouds of frost, and he'd try so hard to catch them, but they'd thin once they passed through the red mask over her face, fully dissolving into the thick air quicker than his lagging reflexes could react. Occasionally, he'd feel a draft sweep across his face, and he'd breathe in and hold the breath for as long as he could, praying for yellow or orange or something other than red to flow through his veins. But he'd let go of the tepid air when she told him to breathe, sometimes her fingers reaching out as if she was going to share her secret, until she realized how red he was — how he threatened to absorb her life.

She was so blue that the walls around her would fade to pink, the soothing relief bleeding through her feet and across the floor, up the legs of his bed until it was so close he could taste it. And just before he could soak it up, just before he could quench his insides with the sweet relief she emanated from her every pore, the unbearable heat would take her away. His skin would sting and he could hear his bones screaming as the relief was retracted, like ice cracking under the pressure of a raging fire, melting just out of his reach. They'd push her backwards until her sad milky eyes disappeared behind the fiery door, locking out his only symbol of hope until the minute hand could struggle its way to the top of the hill again. And he'd wait. Wait for her to come back and turn the room into shades of comfort and relief.

When she came back for the fourteenth time — he couldn't not keep count — icy tears fell from her eyes. He reached out to them, knowing that if he could feel them, just one, he could gain the strength he needed to continue. But when she stepped forward urgently, traces of the cure pooling in her footsteps, the harsh red warnings forced her back. Her fingers remained stretched out against the restraints, her soft color fading as she fought the flames, but the tears were too far for him to grab. They pushed her further away, and with every step she cried harder, her power evaporating until it was completely absorbed by the crimson atmosphere.

* * *

"Afew hours, maybe," they told her. "Not much longer now," they insisted. But every time she walked through the doors and into that dreadful room, the pain would wash away from his face, and he'd struggle. Struggle, in a positive way. Like there was hope. Like he refused to accept what they kept insisting was inevitable.

He pleaded for her help. Silently, like he does so well. His eyes bright but hardly blue anymore. They were changed somehow by the fever that was slowly claiming him in bits and pieces. He looked at her like she was God. Like she could actually save him. Like she was his cure. But she wasn't a scientist, and she wasn't a doctor, and she certainly wasn't God, and knowing this only made her heart shatter beneath his unwavering faith. Because no matter how hard she tried, she could never have been what he needed.

They told her this was it. This was the last time she would see him. The last time she could tell him that she loved him and wished she was everything he seemed to think she was. But when she met his gaze, begging for her to make him better, she broke. She even cried harder when he punched death in the gut one last time, fighting off fate and grasping for her like a lifeline just inches away from the tips of his fingers. They pushed her away. Away from her son. And she fought them as hard as she possibly could because, even though she didn't believe it would really change anything, he at least deserved that. He at least deserved to see someone fight as hard as he was.

They said, "It's not safe." They added, "Say your goodbyes." But all she could say was, "Why?" Why couldn't anyone find it in themselves to save him like he would do for them?

She fell onto the floor outside the big metal door, her breath barely sustaining the sobs that suffocated her with unbelievable sorrow. It wasn't enough. Two days bombarded by an incredible sickness, stripping away such a promising life. Two days wasn't enough time. She wasn't ready. No words could possibly convince her that this was all right.

Warm arms of comfort lifted her up and squeezed her so hard that some of the choking despair had to leak out into the air. "Why couldn't I help him?" she barely managed into his warm chest, his own tears gathering in a puddle on her shoulder, overflowing into streams of a soul lost streaking down the back of her neck.

He placed a hand on each side of her face, his fingers hot against her damp, chilled cheeks, holding her firmly and pushing her away, but still close enough for their noses to brush. "You did," he whispered into her, and she swallowed the words like candy, trying so hard to believe it could actually be true. "You did."

* * *

Thanks so much for reading. 


End file.
